Distortions
by Lexical Item
Summary: Dent's fall brings a fear of the end to Gotham. This draws the four riders out of human consciousness and back into the world. An individual with an, uh, unique perspective, ends up confronting them all.
1. Carnelian Whisper

**Warnings:** Rated for a little bit of implied violence

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of these characters at all or the world they're in

**Distortions**

The End had been averted. The riders did not quite have the vested interest of Up Above or Down Below, but they felt a little cheated nonetheless. Such petty emotions were beneath them, of course, but spending time around humans and being shaped by their belief had consequences.

For a while they had languished in the collective consciousness of humankind, dissatisfied and agitated. But they were not going to go quietly, not until they had had at a bit of fun and stirred up some trouble. They needed a place where hope had been shattered. They needed a place where The End seemed closer than it had ever been.

Such a place where minds were open and despairing of the apocalypse attracted the riders like water up the side of a glass container. Though it was not really The End, for the people of Gotham, it certainly felt like it. For the riders it was more than enough, so three horsepersons rode fourth. The last rider did not need to ride with them. He was already in Gotham. A city that contained the Joker necessarily contained him.

**Chapter 1: Carnelian Whisper**

It had taken a month for the Joker to become bored with Arkham. During the first few days he was content to reflect on his experience and what he'd learned about the Batman. Following that, the straitjackets and electronic locks had presented an amusing challenge, at least for a while. After that, the psychiatrists and inmates had provided entertainment during those times when his interactions weren't limited due to 'disruptive behaviour'. But eventually he ran out of people to tell scar-related stories to and after he gave his first psychiatrist a breakdown, the rest of them became sort of wary.

The last thing that held his interest was therapeutic arts and crafts. He was limited to arts and not-crafts after the unfortunate incident involving the supposedly harmless safety scissors. The Joker had thought it rather unfair at the time. He had only been expressing his creativity and he had been led to believe that that was the point of the exercise. It took him three days to escape once he became bored. The delay was due to the second helping of dessert the Asylum allowed on Wednesdays. There was no way he was going to miss that.

The city had changed in his absence. His capture and the various setbacks the mob had endured had left a sort of vacuum of power that all the petty little criminals had rushed to fill. The most noticeable symptom was the gang warfare. Gotham had always had a problem with graffiti, now, instead of random, chaotic, offensive and often anatomically implausible phrases and pictures, the street art had become a statement about which gang owned which patch of alley way. There were now complicated symbols of warnings, alliances, threats and invitations. It was like a public noticeboard with bad spelling. The Joker passed through no less than three vicious street fights and turf wars involving rival gangs. Two of the gangs had failed to recognise him and had tried to make their fight his problem. There had been few survivors.

However he wasn't wandering through the Narrows just for kicks, at least not tonight. He had things to do, places to go, and stuff to destroy. What he needed right now were people to take care of the mundane, boring little details like getting supplies and raw materials that he could forge into chaos. While these sorts of people seemed to gravitate toward him without much effort on his part, right now he needed lots of them in a hurry. Consequently, he was going to a particularly disreputable establishment that tended to stock the sort of people he used.

When he entered the bar, the atmosphere was peaceful, although this was out of a sense of apathy rather than affability. People in varying states of decay were hunched over drinks or, in one case, over a deck of greasy playing cards. The grime on the windows let through very little light. Despite the late afternoon sun glaring outside, in the bar, it seemed to be early evening.

The Joker didn't want any attention quite at that moment. It would be best to pick and choose recruits at his own pace rather than having the patrons start fleeing in terror. Surprisingly, he could make himself a part of the background if the situation demanded it. It helped that people were basically blind and tended to see what they wanted to see. He took a seat in a shadowed corner and let his gaze wander over the occupants. It would not take long to identify likely applicants.

While the Joker's entrance had gone practically unnoticed, the next individual to cross the threshold drew every eye in the establishment. Now the Joker was a good judge of character. As far as he was concerned, there wasn't all that much variety to humanity once you understood the archetypes. People were predictable and obvious and completely lacking in any originality or creativity. They should honestly be thanking him for shaking things up in their grey, drab little world.

The first impression the Joker formed regarding the newcomer was that she was the tough-girl type. She was strutting into a seedy bar with an unconcerned air. Her cleanliness and attire suggested that was also stupid and would likely be regretting her choice in, oh, about five seconds. The Joker giggled to himself. These days you didn't see much of the terminally stupid in Gotham. This should be fun.

Then a moment later, the Joker noticed something that set his discoloured teeth on edge. The way she walked was odd. It was not a gait that he had seen on anything that walked upright and lacked lots of pointy teeth or a long stripy tail. A second glance confirmed that her appearance was similarly discordant. Her hair was a genuine deep auburn and far too long and sleek. Her lips were too red in way that was only loosely based on her makeup. The Joker's eyes narrowed. No one should be able to _stalk_ in high heels.

The Joker's perceptions and thought patterns could be politely described as unique. His instincts were telling him that there was something fundamentally wrong with this individual. It wasn't just that she didn't belong in this bar; she didn't belong in this reality. That was what his instincts were telling him, but he had no sense of what that actually meant.

The woman in question sauntered toward his corner. His smile widened as she approached his table. It wasn't so much an inviting or pleasant expression as much as a baring of his teeth. He was keenly aware of the position of every knife on his person. It was hard to tell against the background levels of his aggression, but the desire to disembowel someone seemed somewhat higher than normal. It wasn't that she was threatening per se, it was just that her presence made him want to cause a bloodbath, even more so than usual.

The being—the _thing_—in red slid into the seat opposite him. At least her shape blocked his visage from the other patrons. He had the unsettling feeling that even if this wasn't the case, they'd still be more likely to look at her.

"Sorry to bother you," she began, "but that is a lovely shade of red. What lipstick are you using?"

The Joker blinked. What ever he had expected her to say, it wasn't that. As for the question itself, he honestly had no idea. He had grabbed the lipstick off an unfortunate bystander after he had broken out. His black and white greasepaints had been in his coat where the asylum workers had sequestered it. However, he had just run out of the red stuff before he had been captured. It hadn't seemed important at the time, but he was surprised at how much he had missed having his makeup done correctly. He was so pleased at finding a woman applying lipstick, only streets away from Arkham, that he had let her live. Well, she was probably alive. If she had bled out before she found a phone that was hardly his problem.

The feeling of violent tension was shoved aside to make way for bemusement. The Joker raided a coat pocket and withdrew the lipstick. He looked at the label. "Uh, 'Carnelian Whisper', apparently."

The creature nodded to herself. "Thanks, I'll remember that."

The Joker grinned. "You're not human, are you?" he asked on impulse.

The woman tilted her head slowly. "You don't happen to have my sword, do you?"

"I might have, what does it look like?"

She laughed. The sound was the tinkling of shrapnel. "Never mind, you'd know if you had it. It's functional. It's designed for chopping people into little pieces rather than for flourishing and catching the light. It's practically unique."

The Joker snorted. "Right, right," he said dismissively. His demeanour changed lightning fast as he leant forward in a way that usually caused hardened criminals to lean back and sometimes fall out of their seats. "Who are you?"

"Scarlett."

An unaccustomed frown found its way onto the Joker's face. His question had been the politer version of 'what the hell are you?' and she (it) was just being uncooperative. His favourite knife was in one of his hidden coat pockets, resting just above his heart. It seemed to hum.

A sudden crash jolted the Joker out of whatever violent course of action he was about to decide on. One of the drinkers had broken a chair over his neighbour's back. It was so delightfully cartoon-ish, that the Joker burst into laughter. For the rest of the bar, the violent act was like striking sparks onto his favourite flammable substances. The bar erupted into a chaotic brawl. Even the most depressive, near catatonic drinkers were suddenly roaring at the top of their voices and breaking furniture. It seemed the tension in the room hadn't been exclusively focused on him.

The Joker watched with a mixture of fascination and perplexity. He knew that people were animals and had no hope of escaping their innate desires for violence, but usually they required at least a bit of encouragement before they'd act out like this. It was as if someone had found their aggression buttons and then punched them repeatedly. He was more than a little annoyed that he couldn't take credit for it.

The Joker's smile widened again as various ideas sparked and flashed through his brain, bringing a stark clarity of thought. He turned back to the whatever-she-was sitting across from him, only to find that she was making her way to the door. She seemed to sense him staring thoughtfully at her shoulder blades. Scarlett turned back.

"By the way, if you see Sable, tell him I said hi," she called.

The Joker's eyes darted back to the fight for a moment before he answered. "Sure, why not."

After all, the Joker was used to humouring those individuals that were clearly a few swords of short of an army. His brow furrowed for a moment as he wondered why that particular simile had sprung to mind. While he thought, Scarlett left the building, possibly to look for that sword of hers.


	2. Broccoli Plague

**Chapter 2: Broccoli Plague**

The incident involving the probably-not-human creature had left the Joker edgy and unsettled. As such, he was going to take it out on the people of Gotham. The only way that this could be distinguished from his usual activities was that his choices were even more erratic. Edgy feelings made the Joker more impulsive. He figured that it was a survival trait. He tended to feel the delightful combination of stress and focus when things were spinning out of control, situations were backfiring, and combat was imminent. At those times, it was a good idea to follow his instincts and not question his impulses.

For some reason, the Joker felt that it would be a good idea to blow up the grain silos in the industrial district. Another instinct suggested that he highjack a large shipment of petrochemicals that was making its way into Gotham. He didn't question himself. Petrochemicals were delightfully combustible and might come in handy. At the very least it would make the place he stored them in a place of death-trap fun.

The shipment would be in Gotham in couple of days. For now, exploding silos would have to sate the desire for destruction and chaos. People behaved in an uncivilised manner if they thought they might starve. It would also be ridiculously easy. People forgot that military bases and government buildings weren't the only vulnerable targets. It was likely that the grain silos would only have a few fences and locks. Gotham was just lucky that he preferred explosions to mass poisonings. The former was far louder and more drew more immediate attention.

The Joker hadn't acquired all the henchclowns he had wanted after being interrupted, but he had enough to gather a reasonable amount of material to fashion into explosives. He only took a handful of these goons to assist with the setup. It was a simple matter to set up his portion of the explosives and retreat to a relatively safe distance. Positioning explosive properly was second nature. If his henchclowns were as fast as him, good for them. If they weren't, well, it was natural selection at its finest and the Joker spared them a moment's thought as he pressed the detonator. The resulting explosion cheered him up immensely. It felt good to laugh.

Two days later Joker collected all his remaining henchclowns (he had lost one or two in the silo explosions) and headed toward the Palisades, the richer area of Gotham. There were only a few concerned philanthropists who seemed to even acknowledge the food crisis. Surprisingly the playboy prince of Gotham was among them. He must have hired PR reps. or something. However, most of the Gotham elite were acting like nothing had happened.

In principal, the Joker couldn't care less what people did unless he was pushing them into behaving in a certain way. Tonight though, he decided to punish the wealthy restaurant goers for being so inconsiderate. There was a food crisis in Gotham and there was a particularly high-profile restaurant was still serving its usual fare, as if nothing had happened. It was just the sort of behaviour the Joker expected from the unthinking masses. It would be fun to draw everyone's attention to the selective blindness of people who weren't directly affected by crisis. It was just one more tally on the overflowing list that proved people were essentially selfish and had no concern for their fellow herd members. At least he assumed that that was why his instincts were drawing him toward the restaurant. He didn't think to deeply on it. It was much better to simply act.

~X~

The Joker burst into the room and fired several rounds into the ceiling. Plaster fell in chunks and shattered Champaign flutes and fine plates. The tinkling and clattering was exacerbated as the patrons scattered. He didn't care about specific victims at this point. He had more important concerns. He had a point to prove. A point about… he shook his head. For some reason he had begun to feel hungry. That in itself was odd. Unless he was directly confronted with food, or if he hadn't eaten for a day or so, hunger generally wasn't a problem. He was in a restaurant, true, but looking at the slivers of artfully arranged vegetables and wisps of meat, it was hardly his kind of food. Besides, the adrenaline should be keeping any pangs at bay.

It took him a second to realise that the place hadn't emptied completely either. One of the patrons was still sitting in his place, as if pieces of the restaurant's sky weren't literally falling. His meal was untouched and his gaze was fixed on the Joker. Instead of fear or hate and anger, his expression was mostly one of exasperation.

"You know, I was in the middle of trying to close a very important deal with Wayne Enterprises. Do you know how hard it was to get any sort of meeting with their representatives? Public Relations have a hard enough job keeping the public on side, let alone the supposedly scrupulous Wayne Enterprises."

The hunger pangs were getting worse and for some reason the main item of food on nearby plates seemed to be broccoli. The Joker was not pleased. The irritated patron was dressed in a black suit with clean lines. He had a neat beard and the black phone resting near his hand was slim enough to be mistaken for a large after dinner mint. He arched a thin eyebrow and managed to convey that he was waiting for an apology.

The Joker's mind was a source of frustration, puzzlement and fear for the psychiatrists at Arkham. Phrases like 'highly disturbing' and 'completely psychotic' were often bandied about, though not on the official documents. However, it did give him some unique insights that the average, normal individual would not have been able to produce. He considered the recent impulses that weren't necessarily his own. He thought about the confounding attitude of this other most-definitely-not-human sitting calmly in a high-class restaurant. As he regarded the man before him, some floating puzzle pieces snapped into place. The Joker's eyes narrowed.

"Red says hi," he offered.

The man—Sable, apparently—smiled a thin smile. "Yes, I'm sure she would." His expression became thoughtful. "You're the one who blew up those grain silos a few days ago, aren't you?"

The Joker shrugged. "As I see it, civilisation is two meals away from complete chaos at the best of times."

Sable nodded. "I couldn't agree more. While I generally prefer a more subtle method," he indicated the plates around him and the Joker couldn't help but notice that the broccoli plague seemed to have spread, "it is sometimes good to remind them just how vulnerable they are in the face of starvation."

The Joker nodded absently as thoughts made their blazing imprints across his consciousness. He had an idea about what was going on. It would be unbelievable to most individuals and he was sure the doctors at Arkham would have a field day if they knew what he was considering. Then again, there were quite a few unlikely things in Gotham and, considering recent events, perhaps these individuals weren't really so out of place in this reality.

"So what business does 'Famine' have with Wayne Enterprises?"

Sable shook his head slowly. It was the only concession he made to the surprise he felt at being named for what he was. He collected himself before he spoke. If this man had made the connection between him and Scarlett, it wasn't much of a stretch that he had worked out who they were. "I want a larger chunk of the Gotham market share. Wayne Enterprises is the single biggest company in this place and, well, let's just say that a _business_ _alliance_ would be extremely useful."

"What could you possibly be selling? Have you actually managed to develop negative food?"

"Almost," Sable replied enigmatically. "And also double plus food, though it would be stretching the definition of 'food' to the breaking point."

Sable's attention was suddenly focused as one of the Joker's thugs came in from the restaurant's kitchen. He was more emaciated than a runway model and his shuffling steps and hollow torso brought a thin smile to Sable's lips.

The Joker noticed the businessman's gaze. "That's Billy, or uh, Bradley… anyway, he doesn't eat much. It was either because of mind control substances the government put in the food or something about corporate market research drugs." The Joker shrugged. "I forget which."

Sable nodded absently. "We tried the market research idea, but the drugs didn't stand up well against first-pass metabolism."

Sable let his gaze wander over the rest of the Joker's clowns. He hadn't paid them much attention. Since they weren't starving to death, it was hard to consider them as anything more than background to the Joker's foreground.

Sable smiled again when he noticed a couple of particularly large individuals. Once again, the Joker noted his smile and decided to comment.

"Care to share the joke with the rest of the class?"

"Hmm? Oh, those two individuals just remind me of one of my products."

"What, uh, Soylent Green?" the clown asked.

"No. My non-food: Meals™ that contains added fat and sugar. I delight in the paradox that it is possible for an overweight individual to die of malnutrition."

The Joker giggled. "I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Let's just say I have very specialised interests."

"I got that. Tell me, I'm going to run into Pestilence next, aren't I?"

Sable didn't seem surprised by the conclusion. Though, for a moment, he appeared almost wistful before his thin smile returned. "No, not Pestilence. The old crop blighter had a bit of a breakdown after the whole penicillin business. But good guess."

"So… the three horsemen—uh, _persons—_" he amended after remembering 'Scarlett', "instead of four?"

"Oh no," Sable assured. "We have a different member these days. He's a keen lad and he has a niche market that has just been dying for expansion."

The Joker nodded. "Well, it's been fun, but I have other concerns."

Sable shook his hand with a firm businesslike grip. The Joker really did have other concerns. The hunger pang he experienced during the handshake nearly made him wince. He needed sugar fast or he was going to do something about his earlier comment regarding Soylent Green. As he left the restaurant it seemed that broccoli had become the only food available in the entire building. It had to Famine's influence or else _haute cuisine_ had taken a disturbing turn for the worse.


	3. Getting Rusty

**Chapter 3: Getting Rusty**

Apart from the hunger pangs, meeting Famine hadn't been so bad. While his subtle not-human-ness grated a bit against the Joker's senses, Sable hadn't put him on edge the way War had. Go figure. This meant that tonight, the Joker was feeling quite cheerful as he observed the seven car pile-up he had inspired. He was a bit disappointed that none of the cars had exploded. In the movies, they _always_ exploded. All he got was a heap of twisted metal and one car with a malfunctioning horn that let out a continuous high-pitched whine. Maybe fire would be a delayed reaction. He hoped that was it, because flames looked particularly pleasant when they were crawling over tortured metal in a dark street.

Aesthetics aside, the other nifty consequence of this roadblock was that the huge tanker filled with non-distilled petrochemicals would have to turn in order to go around the block and drive straight into an ambush. Henchclowns were waiting down the only possible turnoff, ready to cut off the tanker's progression with a strategically placed van. The Joker was leaning against a crumbling brick wall and admiring his handiwork. He was also watching for the tanker, but that was incidental.

The Joker was not the most patient individual. After an hour of waiting for the tanker, he was starting to get annoyed. It didn't help that his instincts seemed to be rasping against his brain with the sharp insistence of sandpaper. Something had gone wrong, but more importantly, he hadn't caused it. Muttering to himself about inconsiderate drivers, the Joker wandered down the tanker's supposed route. About five blocks from the car 'accident', the Joker noticed a trail of dark oily residue lingering on the road. Weren't these tankers supposed to be high tech and avoid this sort of thing?

The trail made an unexpected turnoff and seemed to be heading toward the docks. It wasn't very far off course, but it was annoying. The Joker followed the trail and wondered how he could best illustrate his irritation to the driver.

The tanker had indeed been heading for the dockyard. It was parked illegally and unwisely on one of the boat ramps that led down to the sea. In the dark, the sea water was black. It was a remarkably quiet night at the waterfront. Most of the processes were automated and didn't take place at this hour, but the place was practically deserted. The only sound was the slapping of the waves against pylons and the occasional creak of rigging.

The driver side door of the tanker opened and the driver stepped out. The Joker had some specific ideas about what a tanker driver was supposed to look like. Words like beefy, beared and surly featured heavily in the description. The individual that stepped down lightly from the tanker was nothing like that. He was young, barely in his twenties, it seemed. He had long hair that was an incredibly pale blond colour. He was also so pale that he almost glowed in the scant moonlight. The last unusual thing about him was that he was meticulously clean. There was not a speck of dirt on his all-white ensemble. In Gotham, that was a rare and disturbing feat indeed.

The pale youth slid around to the side of the tanker and caressed the reinforced valve that kept the petrochemicals inside. The metal corroded beneath his fingertips, the paint split like the skin of a rotting fruit and in less than a minute, dark fluid spurted out from the tanker and ran toward the sea.

The creature had a beatific smile on his face and he laughed like a child dancing under a sprinkler on a hot day. Instead of become drenched in the hydrocarbon ooze, the liquid sleeted off the youth as if unwilling to linger upon his person. At least that indicated how the kid managed to stay so pristine on the streets of Gotham. The dirt was afraid of him.

The youth made his way to the edge of a pier and sat on the salt-warped decking, idly swinging his legs and admiring his handiwork. The Joker had encountered a broad spectrum of insanity through his time in Arkham and through the henchclowns that found themselves in his service. The kid before him was clearly out of touch with reality. It was only his seemingly supernatural abilities that separated him from other disjointed menaces.

The Joker approached warily. He wasn't entertaining thoughts of revenge, though he was annoyed that all those flammable materials were going to waste. In all honesty, he was curious. This was clearly another one of those apocalyptic creatures. This had to be Pestilence's replacement. Who he was meant to be wasn't entirely clear, but the Joker had a theory. He advanced silently and wondered how he'd broach the topic of identity. He had his favourite knife in his hand, but that was more out of habit than malicious intent. He doubted a knife would be of any use against the pale thing or any of those other creatures he had met.

Without taking his eyes of the spreading taint, the youth spoke. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he asked in a breathy voice.

There was no way that the Joker's approach could have been heard over the gushing of petroleum products. He also knew that he hadn't been making any noise. Despite this, the pale kid didn't seem to be talking to himself, regardless of the faraway tone of his voice.

The Joker paused before he replied. "I guess so. Personally, I prefer explosions."

The boy nodded. "The ones with the thick choking smoke are nice."

He turned to face the clown and the Joker almost took a step back. The kid looked like he had fallen into a tub of industrial-strength bleach. His hair was white, actually white, rather than the blond the Joker had first assumed. His skin was several shades too light to be healthy and even his irises were a grey so pale as to almost blend with his sclera. The most shocking thing though, was that despite the vague smile on his face, those pale grey eyes held a cold, flat, determination that made the Joker reconsider his evaluation of the individual. This creature was sane and knew exactly what he was doing.

"I'm Blanc," the creature offered.

"Joker."

Blanc nodded and went back to staring out across the sea and the insidiously spreading oil slick. The Joker had a hard time focusing on the figure before him. Like the petrochemicals, his gaze seemed to slide away from Blanc. It was only with conscious thought that he could remember that he wasn't alone on the dock.

Additionally, the Joker felt a strong desire to shower. He rarely felt compelled to pay the slightest bit of attention to his hygiene. For him, makeup was a part of his face and his hair dye was similarly crucial to his image. However, for the first time, his greasepaints felt unpleasant against his skin, like an oily film. Even his hair, which was essentially dead protein, felt like it wanted to crawl away from his scalp to escape the dye. This was much worse than hunger pangs and violent impulses. Those were natural exaggerations of genuine urges. This was not a sensation he was accustomed to experiencing. This was probably worse than whatever Pestilence's influence would have inspired.

The Joker was happy to have the reassuring weight of his favourite knife in his hand. He flicked a glance to his weapon and then stared at it in horror. It had rusted. His favourite knife was now streaked with reddish brown iron oxide. It was impossible! He kept good care of his knives and he was pretty sure this one was stainless steel.

His gaze became accusing as he turned to regard Blanc suspiciously. The youth sat there unconcernedly and occasionally ran his fingers over the nails of the pier. They rusted beneath his touch and the wood began to rot. If gutting the creature with his now rusting knife would have worked, the Joker would have done so. However, he doubted that it would affect Blanc and the Joker got the feeling that it would be a bad idea to annoy one of these oh-so-obviously-not-humans. It wasn't all that hard to work out who this creature was.

"You're Pollution, right?"

"Mhmm," Blanc hummed. "Gotham is such a lovely place. With all the crime and corruption," Blanc lingered over the word 'corruption' as if enjoying the taste, "no one cares about industrial waste or litter in the storm drains or abandoned warehouses filled with interesting chemicals."

Blanc paused for a moment to stare out over the sea. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a quality that suggested he was not focused on the present, or even aware of it. "The water here tastes especially pleasant. There are tiny traces of something wonderful in it. I think there's something sticking to the pipes."

Joker shrugged. "You can thank Scarecrow for that one."

Blanc nodded again in that absent sort of way. "You're upset about your knife."

The Joker scowled. "I figure the polluting is an effect that you can't turn off."

Blanc looked at him with wide eyes. "Oh, I wouldn't want to, even if I could. It just makes everything so breathtaking."

"Uh… huh."

A smile slid across Blanc's face as insidiously as the oil-slick spread beneath him. "You wouldn't happen to have any matches on you? If I carry them around the wood just rots and the sulphur heads dribble. Sometimes they even spontaneously combust."

Conversely, the Joker often carried matches on his person. There was always time for arson. He knew what Blanc wanted and really, he would have burned the tanker's contents sooner or later. Plus there was something hilarious about setting the sea on fire.

The Joker produced a match, lit it, and let it drop to the water. Blanc followed the tiny flame's progress with shining eyes. The match ignited the thin layer of highly flammable hydrocarbons with a soft whoosh. The Joker and Pollution watched the sea burn. However, the clown couldn't quite match the expression of uninhibited joy on Blanc's face.

The flames burned a bright red-orange and threw ruddy tones against bleached youth's skin and hair. The mixture of impure hydrocarbons sent out great clouds of choking black smoke that made the Joker's eyes sting. He had to back away from the blaze. Even though the smoke deposited a dark oily residue against his face that would likely be messing up his greasepaints, the Joker knew that under the cloud of choking fumes, Blanc would still look pristine. As that thought formed in the Joker's head, he heard child-like laughter ooze from a set of lungs that didn't need air and leak from a throat that wasn't bothered by toxic vapours. For once in his life, the Joker didn't feel like joining in the merriment.


	4. The Cockroach

**Chapter 4: The Cockroach**

You would think that even with a month-long leave of absence, no one would be stupid enough to try and mug him. Maybe the guy had been new to Gotham or high. The Joker looked down at the corpse. Then again, some people were just stupid, terminally so.

"What were you thinking?" he asked.

He knelt down to wipe the blood from his favourite knife on the mugger's dark clothing. It was a pretty futile exercise. His knife was still streaked with rust thanks to Blanc's influence. He had others of course, but this one had the worn grip that fitted his hand perfectly and he was loath to part with it.

As the last drops of blood left his knife and soaked into the would-be assailant's clothes, he sensed that someone else had appeared in the alley. He hadn't heard anything, but he knew that he was no longer alone in the dank laneway. There was only one individual that could sneak up on him with that much finesse. He had wondered how long it would take for Batman to track him down. The whole falling out with the police and public was bound to be a hindrance, but the Bat was more than human. The Joker knew his opponent would find a way.

He took his time standing up to savour the calm, before combat made everything gloriously chaotic. His grin was so wide it pulled at his scars.

"I was wondering when you'd catch up. I mean, I left a pretty obvious path of destruction. Surely the police aren't making things _that_ difficult for you."

The Joker raised his head and paused. It wasn't Batman. The voluntary smile melted off his face. He was getting sick of the interruptions.

"So, I suppose you've come for this guy." The Joker jerked his head in the direction of the ex-mugger. The skeletal presence of Death remained as silent as the average Bat. The Joker gave an exaggerated sigh.

"You see, I'm not an idiot. I realised what was going on about the time I was talking with 'Sable'. War, Famine, 'Pollution', and now you. And you know what? I don't care. I've never feared you and I never will. So you can stop doing the whole silent-as-the-grave-thing and get the hell out of here. I'm expecting company." He ran a hand through his hair, but his gaze was focused and his eyes never left the hooded apparition before him.

Death, on the other hand, was not looking at him. He was looking past the clown's left shoulder. The Joker turned around very slowly. Beneath the greasepaint, his skin paled. No. No, no, _no_.

The Joker wasn't afraid of dying. He'd seen it enough times, caused it enough times, and he knew on an intellectual level that nothing was forever. He was going out with a bang (a very large and literal bang) and that was sort of like his very last piece of amusement. But he wasn't ready for this. Standing behind him and doing that thing where it was hard to tell where shadow ended and were Kevlar and cape began, was Batman. _His_ Batman. The Joker spun back around to face the fourth rider. The skull made it impossible for Death not to be grinning, but somehow his grin seemed wider than it had right to be, and far, far more malevolent.

"I'm not done with him," the Joker managed to croak. "There are games to play and you are not taking him."

His own death, the Joker could handle. If he was killed by the Bat then he would know that it was a life well spent and that his last act was to corrupt the incorruptible. He would have settled for causing his own death, inadvertently, during his own chaos-inducing activities. But to lose the Bat would be worse than death. It would mean that the Joker would be faced with non-existence. No one would be able to stand against him. There was only one equal who was capable of surprising him, let alone stopping him. To lose his opposition would be more than losing his purpose; it would be losing himself.

He raised his knife. It was a stupid gesture and he knew it, but he really wasn't thinking clearly at this point. Death's head tilted down slightly and his gaze now seemed to be in the vicinity of Batman's left foot. Against his better judgement, the Joker turned around again to follow Death's eyeless gaze. The Bat took a step forward and there was a muted crunch. The Joker's gaze flicked to the pavement and he saw the remains of a crushed cockroach beneath Batman's foot. He whipped around again to confront Death. The rider was still grinning, but it no longer looked quite so malicious.

IT'S NOT ALWAYS ABOUT HUMANS. I SHADOW ALL OF CREATION, Death explained.

Death's voice was not something that was really spoken. The whole lack of vocal cords made a true voice impossible. Unlike the rest of the riders, there was no mistaking him for a human being. The words, though unspoken, seemed to filter through directly into the brain.

The Joker himself was speechless. That had never happened to him before, to his knowledge. It was one of the more bizarre feelings he had experienced. He couldn't even vocalise his resentment at having himself and the Batman referred to as humans.

JUST CONSIDER THIS A REMAINDER THAT NOT EVEN YOU ARE IMMUNE. With that, Death departed. He whisked away something indefinite from both the cockroach and the Joker's victim, with the exact same level of gravitas.

Joker shivered and turned back to face the Bat. He knew, in an entirely instinctive manner, that the vigilante hadn't seen Death and had only experienced one side of the stilted conversation. He tried to collect himself. The thought of a dead Bat had shaken him up more than he was willing to admit. War, Famine, Pollution and Death. The Joker was not ready to see Gotham end. There was too much to do, too much chaos to wreak and too many points to prove. Besides, Batman without Gotham would simply defeat the purpose of the game.

The Joker tightened his grip on his knife. Right now, all he wanted was combat. He sprung forward and felt secure in the notion that Batman knew him well enough to have some idea about how was going to attack. The vigilante was hard to take off guard without a surprise attack. They would be matched; the way it was meant to be.

The Joker's first strike went wide, skimming across reinforced Kevlar. A streak of rust marred the black surface where the Joker's knife had flaked. Damn Pollution. Damn all the riders. The Joker couldn't even summon his usual level of viciousness. He was rattled and idly wondered if Batman noticed that his opponent wasn't at his peek. It seemed the vigilante did indeed notice, but rather than closing in for a quick victory, he held back, naturally fearing a trap. Things were never this straightforward when he faced the Joker.

That in itself was hilarious. Batman was more wary of him when he was fighting less competently. The laughter welled up uncontrollably. It was only when he felt the familiar spasms that the Joker realised just how quiet he'd been and how little he had had to laugh about recently. The sound was also a trigger for his dear foe. The Bat's habitual scowl deepened at the sound of manic laughter and he surged forward with a growl. Maybe Batsy disliked his laughter and found it brought back unpleasant memories, or perhaps he felt relieved that the Joker was feeling better and realised that it was okay to play rough. The Joker decided that it was definitely the latter.

Despite his laughter, the Joker just couldn't focus on the fight. Usually thousands of possibilities sleeted through his mind during combat and his impulses seldom led him astray. Now he was distracted and restless, but not in a way that gave him any edge in the matter at hand. Needless to say, Batman's training and discipline, not mention physical strength, gave him the advantage.

The Joker only landed three more strikes and only one of them managed to insinuate itself between armour plates to draw blood. It was a poor effort and the wound probably wouldn't even need stitches. Of course the Joker wasn't fighting to kill, but he liked to leave a mark or two. It was like history, but indelible.

The Joker made one final pass with his knife before the rust-weakened blade snapped off at the hilt. He stared at it for a moment before reaching for one of at least a dozen spares, but the Bat was on him before he could retrieve a new weapon. The collision threw them to the ground and the Joker twisted around to escape, but found himself landing face-first onto the pavement instead. Despite the pain crawling across his face and ribs, the Joker giggled at the idea that he had executed a perfect, albeit unintentional, pratfall. He hoped the pavement wasn't scraping off his makeup too badly.

The Bat shoved a knee between the Joker's shoulder blades and drew his arms up behind his back. Handcuffs snapped into place around the Joker's wrists. He was going to make a comment about bondage, but his heart really wasn't in it. Instead, he turned his head to the side, ignoring the flare of pain that raced up his neck. "Just one favour, Batsy?"

Despite the awkward angle, he couldn't see his opponent and only really saw the walls of the alleyway. As expected, the only reply was silence. He could imagine the unwavering scowl focused on his back. He continued anyway. He knew the Bat was listening.

"Just don't let Gotham destroy itself completely. Not yet."

There was another silence. There was tension to this pause and the Joker could tell that Bats was waiting for the punch line. Unfortunately there wasn't one. Maybe he could occupy himself at Arkham by coming up with one.

"Fine," Batman eventually rasped. He knew better, but the request sounded almost genuine. For some reason, the clown had seemed even more disturbed than usual. Besides, there was no harm in verbalising his desire to protect Gotham, even though he was replying to an appeal from the Joker.

In the darkness, with his face caked with war red, famine black and pollution white, the Joker grinned. There wasn't going to be an ending for Gotham. Not yet.

~X~

**Contradiction aside:**

**The End**

**Thank you, all**


End file.
